


Era of Cultivation by Conjure_Lass

by GO_Library_archivist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adult Content, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Romance, Schmoop, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/pseuds/GO_Library_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>[story by Conjure Lass]</b>
</p><p>Set in the ancient city of Babylon countless years after the Confusion of Tongues, Aziraphale finds himself wandering through uncharted emotional and physical territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Era of Cultivation by Conjure_Lass

**Author's Note:**

> Note from [Quantum_Witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/profile): This story was originally archived at [The Good Omens Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Good_Omens_Library), which I maintained for eight years until I closed it due to lack of funds and decreased usership. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing the GOL's stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in July 2013. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Good Omens Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheGoodOmensLibrary/profile), or through the [GO_Library_archivist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/profile) account.

[Era of Cultivation](viewstory.php?sid=445) by [Conjure_Lass](viewuser.php?uid=166)

 

 

  
Summary: Set in the ancient city of Babylon countless years after the Confusion of Tongues, Aziraphale finds himself wandering through uncharted emotional and physical territory.  
Categories: [Slash Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=3) Characters:  None  
Genres:  Humour, Romance  
Warnings:  Adult Situations, Fluff / Schmoop, Language (mild), Slash (medium)  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 6667 Read: 66  
Published: 26 May 2009 Updated: 26 May 2009

 

 

Story Notes:

I swear I tried to keep it historically accurate, but some things aren't. I'm sure i'll be forgiven.

 

Era of Cultivation by Conjure_Lass

 

Babylon: 570 B.C.

A soft breeze blew up off the Euphrates River far below, bringing with it the barely-there smell of green algae and baking bread as Aziraphale closed his eyes with a contented sigh. The sound of a thousand people bustling hurriedly about their lives caught in the shell of his ear before being drowned out by the play of the wind and the placid peeping of the tiny flock of house sparrows that had been diligently keeping him company for the past hour. **(1)**

He probably should have known he wouldn’t make it to the top.

The infamous Tower of Babel turned out to be quite a bit more of a physical challenge than Aziraphale had originally expected, so the small sitting area about halfway up for tired travelers such as himself was very much appreciated. Apparently the ill-fated architects of the structure had anticipated that no one would be able to make the monstrous trek in one go and planned in advance for such a contingency. They really had thought of everything. Well, almost everything.

A stiff gust of wind blew a twist of flaxen hair loose from the silver ring that had been holding it back from his face, tickling across pale blue eyes before being pushed primly back into place by a ruddy hand. The day was as close to perfect as he could have asked for, a veritable treasure-trove of charm. Wispy clouds cast thin shadows across the scattered earthen bricks around him, painting them in deep shades of sienna and rust, the sky was a perfect shade of azure that stretched out for miles, the air tepid and dry. In truth, he should have been working, but it was far too lovely out for something so routine! Duty could wait while he recharged his ethereal reservoirs with a little old-fashioned recreation. Smiling, Aziraphale took a deep breath and stood to stretch his arms over his head lazily. A few cups of wine and some honeyed bread in the gardens sounded divine; though he was loath to start the journey all the way back down so soon. He was, however, even more averse to continuing farther up to the highest level. Decisions, decisions.

Perhaps he’d just stay there a little longer and weigh his options. He did, after all, have all the time in the world.

A muffled scuffling from behind drew Aziraphale’s attention away from his thoughts, head snapping around nervously to discern the source of the sound. Almost a slithering? Cautious steps echoing along the floor, he paused at one of the many columns holding up the next level, running his hands along the smooth surface as he made his way around it. He wasn’t clear exactly what he was worried about considering that he was an angel, but all his ethereal alarm bells were going off one after another, and try though he may he couldn’t seem to shrug them off.

Someone was there.

“Hello?” he called softly, narrowing his eyes as menacingly as he could manage and jumping atop a ten-foot piece of broken stone. From that height he could see everything below quite a bit better, though he reaped no rewards for his exertion. He seemed to be alone. “I know someone’s there.”

Silence answered back, save for the pattering of birds on the terrace and the distant call of a kestrel somewhere out in the city. Odd. He could have sworn someone had been there. Perhaps it was just the ingrained paranoia that came with being somewhere that God Himself had chosen to reprimand. True, it had been quite some time since the rule of Nimrod and the Confusion Of Tongues, but that didn’t mean that His presence hadn’t sunk into the very foundation of the stone, etched permanently into the living fabric of the brick. The tower would always breathe with the lingering sense of righteous punishment. **(2)**

 

Aziraphale lifted the blue hemline of his ankle-length ivory tunic and gingerly hopped back down to the floor, straightening the brilliant sapphire sash around his body upon his landing. He still felt as though he were being watched, still felt eyes upon him even though there seemed to be no evidence to corroborate his reaction. Reaching up, he fiddled absentmindedly with his choker of lapis and silver, blinking a few times before turning away slowly to make his way back down the tower.

Now he really _did_ want that wine.

The walk down was infinitely more pleasurable (and less strenuous) than the walk up had been, and before Aziraphale knew it he was strolling peacefully along one of the still-bustling city streets. Vendors called out to him from stalls on either side of the market, hawking their respective wares, but he was determined to get to the gardens before the sunset and so ignored their pleas. It was a already a bit past midday, and the smell of suppers cooking in the houses made him feel pleasantly warm and at ease, washing away his earlier feelings of apprehension.

Pausing for a moment in the middle of the bridge that led across the channel to his destination, he smiled somewhat childishly and leaned over the stone side to watch a small boat pass beneath. Its wake distorted his reflection in the surface of the water as it went, shards of light waxing and waning in the depths of the canal before evening back out. When it was gone he blinked curiously, cocking his head to the side and gasping when he saw that his reflection was no longer alone in the rippling waves. It was joined now by what could only be described as a living shadow, a strangely man-shaped form that strangled the sun’s light in its grasp, glittering like dark scales catching in the afternoon rays. Startled, Aziraphale jumped backwards, clumsily knocking into a man carrying a woven basket in his arms. Apologizing profusely, he helped the innocent bystander pick up the spilled contents of the container while inwardly scanning for any hint of danger, finally excusing himself and walking over to the staircase of the gardens with another muttered apology.

He should have known…there was really only _one_ entity in the world (any world) that would enjoy this sort of banal nonsense.

Now that there seemed to be little more need to wonder exactly what was going on he felt a bit more relaxed, but he was still quite perturbed at the bothersome game of impromptu hide-and-seek. _Someone_ was going to get _such_ a smiting when he finally got his exquisitely manicured hands on them! There were very few things that Aziraphale truly disliked, but being taken for a fool was definitely quite high on that list. **(3)**

Finding himself more annoyed now than anything else, he unnecessarily straightened his sash again and looked up at the topmost terrace of the garden. Damnation! This staircase was just as excessively high as the last one he’d been on…did _everything_ in Babylon have to be so terribly tall?!

Sighing long-sufferingly, he began the arduous climb, stopping every so often to gaze at the terraces to his left and right and smile somewhat wistfully at the seemingly endless abundance of plant life. Delicate blooms of purple, pink and white were all around him, magnificent spiked crimson leaves shot up in all directions from the ground, green grass and draping vines covered every mound of available earth in colorful bunches. Ornamental bushes burst forth with fragrant blossoms between the man-made streams of water running down to the lower terraces while vibrant blue butterflies paraded sporadically between the flowers before fluttering off to their next meal. It was all deliciously beautiful, all superb and exceptional…but not quite enough to ease the feeling of disquiet that had taken root at the base of his spine.

Aziraphale’s face broke out into a delighted smile when he reached the uppermost terrace, closing his eyes momentarily to breath in the sweet perfume of orange and lemon blossoms that permeated the area. This had definitely been worth the effort, though he now wanted nothing more than to sit down and enjoy it, preferably along with some kind of alcoholic beverage. Thankfully there weren’t very many people up here, and those who were didn’t give him even a second glance as he ambled to the balcony to gaze at the busy city below. He’d always liked looking down at the world from great distances, usually attributing it to the circumstances of his creation more so than anything else. Angels were meant for the sky after all.

A pinpricking feeling, a rush of heat, the feeling of eyes upon his back…ah…there he was…

Resting his body against the chest-high wall, he leaned down to place his chin thoughtfully on his forearms before turning his head and peeking playfully around his shoulder. Really, there was no more need for beating around the bush; it wasn’t as though his pursuer didn’t know that he knew.

“You can come out now Crowley,” he said, his voice full of teasing self-assurance. “I think you’ve stalked me enough for one day, don’t you my dear?”

“I’d hardly call it stalking…more like admiring from a distance,” came the soft reply, and Aziraphale turned with his hands clasped behind his back to see the beautiful figure that had been lurking behind him most of the afternoon reveal itself properly. Crowley, though a creature of darkness, had always looked most fetching when being displayed out in the sunlight where he could be appreciated for the superior specimen that he was. That being said, Aziraphale had done far more “appreciating” of that form than he’d be likely to admit out loud, but that was another matter entirely.

No harm in thinking about it though. And he _had_ thought about it. Multiple times. Throughout countless centuries. Decades of collective “thinking” had been done.

Crowley came out slowly from behind the low hanging limbs of a nearby lime tree, plucking a particularly large one from the branches as he went. His clothes were a near duplicate of Aziraphale’s own, though where the angel’s were a study in radiant blues and creams, the demon’s were a virtual explosion of warm reds and brilliant oranges. His eyes, uncovered and vibrantly yellow, were accentuated by the large golden hoops that hung from each of his ears and the gold leaf that had been hammered into a delicate ribbon to hold back his hair. Glittering at his throat was a necklace of what had to be priceless ebony beads, polished so dazzlingly that you couldn’t tell that it had once been a tree.

He was…stunning…and of course that was the point.

“Garish as usual,” Aziraphale remarked, waving a hand towards Crowley’s ensemble. “At least this time it’s somewhat tasteful.”

“Hypocrisy looks ugly on you.” Crowley strode forward until he was close enough to tap a tan finger directly into the center of Aziraphale’s heavy silver pendant, raising an eyebrow mockingly. “Those aren’t exactly rags you’re so elegantly wrapped up in.”

Instantly the angel’s cheeks felt hotter, and he coughed a few times in an effort to hide his reaction, averting his gaze.

“Hmph.”

Turning back towards the city with a dismissive sniff, Aziraphale leaned his chin peevishly into his right hand before making room when Crowley sidled up next to him with a mischievous smile and a gentle brush of hips. The physical contact was too obvious to be accidental yet too subtle to be pointed out, making the angel wish whole-heartedly that he were anywhere else but there as he struggled to hold back a timid chuckle. Damnation. This wasn’t going to work. Because despite his best efforts to tell it to behave otherwise, his skin had already begun tingling in a pleasant way where they’d touched, reminding him once again how much of a love-hate relationship he had with the demon’s presence. There was always a strange lingering tension (that he was a bit too afraid to properly name) whenever they were near one another, a thrumming energy that wasn’t entirely to do with their being mortal enemies. It was…ineffable. It was also incredibly trying, and that alone was enough to throw Aziraphale’s inner scale off balance.

The two of them stood quietly for a moment, both lost in their respective thoughts, before Crowley whistled softly and turned to the blond as though he’d discovered a cure for impotency and just had to share it with someone.

“Do you remember the last time we were both here?”

A pale eyebrow rose incredulously, the angel pursed his lips and gestured pointedly towards the tower looming in the distance. How could he forget? Granted, he had actually seen very little of Crowley in those days, but it had obviously been the serpent’s voice that whispered into the ear of Nimrod and urged the tower’s construction, undoubtedly his wiles that convinced the citizens around him into thinking it was a brilliant idea. It was a fact that had become even more apparent when, after all the confusion had died down a bit, the demon had come to Aziraphale and offered to take him out for celebratory drinks.

Aziraphale had, for once, declined…and they’d never spoken of the incident since. Sore subject.

“That was one of my better ideas,” Crowley murmured sentimentally, dropping the lime twenty feet onto an unsuspecting passerby before turning around to lean his elbows against the wall. He snickered as a rather colorful stretch of curses floated up from below, pinning the angel with a soft, self-satisfied smile. He did so love his mischief making. “And the divine interference worked out better than anything I could have planned myself. It was the _pièce de résistance_.”

What…a…bastard.

“Quit your boasting,” Aziraphale snapped suddenly, twisting around to cross his arms over his chest. “It’s unbecoming of someone your age and it certainly doesn’t impress _me_.”

Without another word he turned to leave, letting a calming breath out through his nose even though he knew he didn’t need to. What was the matter with him? He was almost four thousand years old for Someplace’s sake! It should have been nothing to shrug off Crowley’s needling…and yet it seemed to be getting harder with each passing social call through the ages. Aziraphale was, to put it mildly, affected. It was distressing. Infuriating. Confusing. Vexing. All those bothersome adjectives.

Crowley’s next statement was even more so.

“So what _does_ impress you these days? It seems to me that lately **(4)** it’s child’s play to get your feathers ruffled but altogether impossible to get you preening.”

Eyebrows coming together coolly, Aziraphale cast a condescending glare over his shoulder at what appeared to be a very confused demon...and lost a little bit of his confidence. Curses. In truth, he didn’t blame Crowley in the least for his puzzlement. He was rather confused with his behavior himself.

“I doubt anything in your infernal arsenal would be enough to impress me, dear boy…and…and my feathers are most certainly not 'ruffled'…whatever that means. And you know I don’t preen in front of others…and…”

“Easy, easy, eeeassyy.” Crowley glided up beside him, hands raised in front of himself as though to ward off a blow. “What’s with the flustered virgin act? I don’t see you for a decade and then when I do you’re so skittish I can’t even tease you a little? Relax, angel.”

Momentarily reproved, Aziraphale blinked wordlessly and nibbled at his bottom lip, focusing his attention on his sandaled toes before glancing back up into an expectant face. If Crowley was actually upset he was hiding it remarkably well. In fact, the only emotion that Aziraphale really saw was a slightly flustered indulgence, one dark eyebrow raised questioningly.

It was all very silly, wasn’t it?

“Dinner?” Aziraphale offered on a whim, flashing a wide smile at his counterpart who laughed softly in response and put his hands behind his back. “Wine?”

“How about both and I’ll tell you all about my superbly interesting decade which was obviously more fascinating than yours just by default?”

“I think that sounds lovely.”

And really, it was. Crowley hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he’d had an exceptionally stimulating ten years; from the sound of things his stamp of sedition and temptation and sloth had been all over the world. Everything from the untimely death of Tarquin I to the warring provinces in China to the invention of something called Chess had been subject to his wiles and whims, and all the while he’d apparently been enjoying himself immensely. There was an enthusiastic glimmer in the demon’s eyes that Aziraphale couldn’t help but find infectious, laughing along with each exuberant storytelling and leaning forward with each conspiratory whisper. Before long he’d forgotten all about being uncomfortable, sprawling gracefully **(5)** across a red cotton-filled sofa set snugly in a small garden of miniature pear trees behind the villa where Crowley was staying. If he’d been a little more honest (lying, even to one’s self, was never appropriate) he would have been able to admit that he was really having a smashing time despite his best efforts not to.

Perhaps a bit too smashing really. Fraternization and all that…but he just didn’t feel like worrying about it. He could, of course, blame the wine later. Obviously.

“You’re empty. Shall I?” Crowley crossed his legs beneath himself and motioned towards the wine jug sitting on the ground nearby with a long, pointed finger. He’d spent the better part of the conversation that way, resting on the ground with his arms and chin on the other end of the couch Aziraphale had claimed after dinner, giving himself an air of innocence that the angel simply _knew_ couldn’t be real. And yet…

With a small nod the angel sat up and reached out with cup in hand, graciously accepting his companion’s offer of a refill before reclining once again with a decadent sigh. The demon was silent now, his chin propped in his hand on the sofa near Aziraphale’s bare feet, his expression somewhere between bemusement and distraction as he gazed off into the distance. Whatever he was thinking about, it must have been very weighty, because the longer he sat contemplating it the closer his dark eyebrows became and the more he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked quietly, drawing the sole of his foot up to rest against Crowley’s cheek to turn his face towards him. “Your mood seems to have plummeted down into the pits of drama.”

Crowley glanced towards the foot resting against his cheek meaningfully before Aziraphale quickly lowered it, a blush spreading hotly across his cheeks. He was about to apologize for his massive social faux pas when Crowley reached out like lightning to grab the ankle that had previously been located somewhere around his jaw line and give it a firm tug towards himself, fingertips smooth as silk against the angel’s skin. Without a word he began rubbing his thumb deftly along the blond’s Achilles tendon, making the action seem as casual as having a glass of fruit juice or going for a walk, innocent as a pat on the shoulder even though it was anything but. A gasp caught in Aziraphale’s throat almost painfully, his needless heart suddenly pounding furiously behind his ribcage as his fingers clenched so hard at the cup that his knuckles began to turn white.

This was…odd. If by odd one meant “awkward physical contact that made one’s insides ache in strange ways”. Wasn’t this sort of thing reserved for people who _weren’t_ eternal enemies? People who disliked one other didn’t give each other foot rubs…right? Right?

“So,” Crowley murmured, bringing his other hand up to press both thumbs into the arch of Aziraphale’s foot while glancing almost coyly over the top of his toes. “What have you been up to? Thwarting as usual?”

Aziraphale, flustered as he was, attempted to answer the question as normally as possible considering the things Crowley’s hands were doing. **(6)** It was difficult though, when all he wanted to do was either pull his foot away and curl up shyly in the corner or recline more fully and enjoy the delicious sensation of having someone fondle him in such an intimate way. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him like this, and even then it had been other angels who’d been doing the touching so it was all rather chaste. He was rather certain that Ithuriel and Hamiel had never looked at him with an expression like _that_.

“Business as usual I’m afraid.” Aziraphale trembled slightly with the struggle of keeping in a pleasured groan as Crowley’s fingers pressed along the top of his foot. “I just don’t run in as interesting of circles as you do, dear. I’m afraid I’m doomed to be notoriously predictable.”

“Well…I wouldn’t necessarily say that.” Crowley grinned and kneaded into Aziraphale’s heel firmly with his knuckles before moving on to the other foot. “For example, _I_ would have thought that when I started doing this you would run away screaming like a little girl. Instead, here you are enjoying the pampering like the prince you are. If I were anyone else I’d be shocked.”

“Glad I can keep you on your toes.”

“And yours.”

“Touché”

Silence descended upon them, heavy and laden with awkwardness. Or…at least that’s the way it was for Aziraphale. Crowley, for his part, seemed to be perfectly at ease with the situation, his lithe hands focused on their work as he massaged the angel’s foot into submission. Eventually he reached up and motioned discernibly for the blond to give him his arm, a perfect eyebrow raised almost challengingly. Cocky thing. Never one to back down from a contest of wills, Aziraphale did so tentatively, sitting up so that he was looking down at the top of Crowley’s dark head and holding in his gasp when their fingers slid together smoothly.

“You know…you’ve been acting strangely since this afternoon,” Crowley whispered, turning only his eyes up to meet Aziraphale’s, working his fingers into the palm of the angel’s hand. “If you’re still angry about the whole Tower of Babel thing you may as well just spit it out now. I mean, if I’d known it was such a sore subject I wouldn’t have brought it up. I’ve done worse you know.”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale huffed dismissively, turning his eyes away almost petulantly.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale paused while contemplating his answer. What could he say? That it wasn’t the setting or the past circumstances that made him edgy, but the promise of present circumstances that sent his emotions into turmoil? That it was taking everything he had to sit still and not give in to the strange physical sensations that he couldn’t properly understand and that were slowly filling up his corporeal form like a cup in the rain? That all the fussing and fretting and shows of annoyance were really cover-ups for his admittedly confused longings and reactions and had been for the better part of a thousand years? How did one say that without looking like a complete fool?

Well…honesty did tend to be the best policy.

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe you? Maybe me? Maybe us touching like this?” Aziraphale motioned airily with the hand still holding his wine cup, his voice sounding as though it should have been obvious what the trouble actually was.

“It’s just your hand, angel.” Crowley wiggled Aziraphale’s wrist around as if to prove a point, squeezing their fingers together briefly before pushing his wrist back until it cracked. “I’d hardly deem this heavy petting.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

A pause, pregnant and thick, smeared between them like fig spread on a piece of cake.

“I know.”

Silence again, this time awkward for both parties. Crowley had ceased his massaging and instead sat with the angel’s unmoving hand wrapped in both of his own, an inexplicable sigh emanating from deep in his chest before he started to pull away entirely. Aziraphale, acting on instinct alone, quickly lurched forward to fill the void, grabbing the demon’s hand tightly and swallowing as he tried to figure out what to do next. Crowley’s suddenly wide eyes shot up to him before falling into an expression of vaguely impressed amusement, his mouth opening and closing a few times like a handsome fish.

All right. He was holding Crowley’s hand in a decidedly non-platonic way. Hard. Now what?!

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said smoothly, looking down again at their interlocked fingers with an easygoing expression. “If I were human you’d be breaking every bone in my hand right now.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale let go as though he’d been bitten, staring down at Crowley’s slightly purpling skin with concern. “I’m sorry, my dear! I just…I mean, I…”

“Don’t worry about it. You can’t help it.” The demon cracked the knuckles on his abused hand with an indulgent smile before crawling up wordlessly to sit beside Aziraphale, spreading his long legs out in front of himself and tucking his hands innocently into his lap. The angel backed away initially, flicking his tongue out to wet suddenly dry lips as he watched Crowley settle comfortably against the pillows.

“My goodness,” Crowley began speaking as though he were completely alone, his voice taking on a dramatic lilt, fingers toying distractedly at his long tunic. “It certainly is lonely on this end of the couch. If only I weren’t _all alone_ down here. But I suppose I‘ll just have to endure it… _all alone_ …on this lonesome couch. Shame, really. Being all alone. _Cold_ too.”

“Oh for the love of…,” Aziraphale tutted, rolling his eyes and brushing a stray curl from his eyes. Cautiously, as though he might be struck by divine lightning at any moment, he edged closer until their sides were pressed flush against each other, deliberately looking everywhere but to the being sitting next to him grinning triumphantly. There was heat gathering where their bodies met, shoulder to knee, a dizzying swirl of sensation that instantly fogged up his mind and wiped away whatever perfectly good reasons he’d had as to why this was a Very Bad Idea.

“You’re incorrigible you know,” he murmured, not even bothering to flinch when he felt Crowley’s arm snake around him over the back of the couch. “This is wrong on every possible level.”

“Oh? I didn’t think it was possible for you to _do_ wrong.” Crowley chuckled darkly and looked over at him, sliding his foot out of his sandal to rub it along Aziraphale’s ankle. What had previously felt like smoldering embers in his body erupted into a full-blown fire, though not an unpleasant one, and he struggled to keep his expression somewhat neutral and not nestle in closer to the source of the blaze. Indeed, it was like his skin was suddenly super-sensitive, that every nerve in his body was somehow directly connected to…well…parts he didn’t tend to use very often. **(7)**

“Well, playing footsies with you certainly doesn’t constitute anything right.”

“Do you like it though?”

“Perhaps.”

“Mmm.” Crowley replied ambiguously, letting his hand trail stealthily into the angel’s hair and press his head onto his shoulder. Aziraphale’s heart rate quickened monumentally, but he made no move to resist, instead choosing to close his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. Being this close, he could tell that Crowley smelled of incense and expensive oils, of linen and pressed gold. And yet, somewhere under all those cloaking perfumes, lurked the scent of something…deep, almost subterranean. It was like sitting in a pitch-black room and smelling the faintest trace of a creature you knew slithered on its belly and didn’t need its eyes to sniff you out properly. Under all the fragrant cover-ups, Crowley still smelled vaguely like a snake.

It wasn’t all together disagreeable.

“So this was it?” Crowley turned his head towards Aziraphale, brushing lips along the top of his head. “This was what was bothering you?”

Not making an effort to deny it anymore, Aziraphale nodded miserably, eyes still closed even as he allowed his hand to rest shakily on Crowley’s knee. What was the point of refusing the truth? It wasn’t as though things were going to get better by doing so, it wasn‘t as though these feelings would just magically disappear; if anything they’d gradually get worse until he wouldn’t even be able to be in the same city-state as the demon without some kind of altercation. He sighed and pressed his sweltering face into Crowley’s shoulder, rubbing his nose against the soft fabric, breathing in a scent that he didn’t think he could ever get bored of.

“You’d better not be wiping snot on me, angel.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s head snapped up…only to collide with a pair of supple, expectant lips.

Underhanded serpent.

It wasn’t that this was the angel’s first kiss **(8)** , wasn’t as though this were his first excursion into the realm of physical affection, but this was the first time that it was…his own. Aimed explicitly at appeasing his desires. Contact that had nothing to do with making a mortal happy or showing someone the love of God or persuading someone to goodness. No…this was just him, just Crowley, just the blissful slide of lips and the press of bodies against one other. Just his blood rushing in his ears so loudly he could hardly hear, his hands moving behind his counterpart’s neck to draw him closer without his even knowing it had happened, his body turning towards the demon’s own and delighting when he was encircled in a pair of lithe arms.

And it was heady.

His mouth was open with a velvet tongue gliding wetly against his own before he could scarcely utter a protest, a sound that was certainly _not_ complaint building in the back of his throat before pouring out between their parted lips in a sweet rush. Crowley pulled away fractionally at the sound, his breath fanning Aziraphale’s face, smelling of wine and lemons, his eyes dilated and glossy, before sealing their mouths together again with a heated whimper. The brunette’s expression, his handsome face, had looked exactly like the angel had imagined so many times, exactly as he had thought it would be, only better. Not that he was going admit that he had been having fantasies about Crowley…especially not _to_ Crowley. No, he was more than satisfied with the situation as it stood.

Well…mostly satisfied. Somewhat. For the most part. On the whole. Really!

With an impatient sound that was like an amalgam of a growl and a hiss, Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s body until he was straddling his lap, shifting his hips a bit to accommodate the angel’s weight. The friction created made Aziraphale gasp into their fused mouths, rocking his own body forward as they continued on until he began to feel his long tunic slithering up to just above his knees. Mortification swiftly dampening his ardor, he pulled back from their impassioned kisses with a undignified squeak, looking over his shoulder at the disgraceful display he was making of himself. If the Lord was watching right now…He was certainly getting quite an eyeful.

Aziraphale had just reached down to tug modestly at the hem of his tunic when his hands were unceremoniously grabbed and pressed to the small of his back, Crowley’s fingers intermingled tightly. A warning bite from the demon’s sharp canines against his jugular vein told him to keep those hands where they were as the skin of his throat was swathed in humid, luxurious kisses, his head lolling to the side to allow a questing tongue to complete its journey down to his collarbone.

“So pale…tastes good,” Crowley murmured, sliding down one shoulder of Aziraphale’s tunic with his nose and tongue to nibble at a patch of exposed skin with delicious fervor.

A particularly sharp nip of teeth made Aziraphale writhe against the hold on his wrists, bottom lip trembling slightly as he finally broke free of Crowley’s grasp and dug his fingers securely into the other man’s hair, tugging impatiently for something he couldn’t voice. The demon was quick to make use of his freed hands and cupped Aziraphale’s rear firmly in his palms, bringing their bodies flush as his hips pressed and ebbed in a sinuous rhythm that was vaguely reminiscent of a strange serpentine mating dance.

Without thinking Aziraphale began to roll his own hips back in response, moaning softly at the blistering sensations that pulsed up and down his spine to gather at the small of his back where they ached insistently. The arousal beneath him was evident and palpable, pushing against his own hardness with each push and pull of their hips, making a faint trace of sweat break out on his forehead. Absolutely licentious. Breaths coming in ragged puffs, Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s mouth eagerly back up to his own, doing more biting and licking than actual kissing, abusing the soft, plump lips that were whispering filthy nothings into his open mouth. All the while the strong hands that had been merely cupping his flesh began to knead it in earnest, pressing at the cheeks of his behind before pulling them apart, long fingers digging into the softness then soothing it with tender caresses.

It was all breathtaking, wonderful, almost agonizingly pleasurable, the kind of sensual experience that most angels would have either turned their noses up at or spontaneously combusted at the mere thought of. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel proud that he’d somehow managed not to pass out due to embarrassment or be smitten for consorting with the enemy.

“My dear,” he whispered, pulling away fractionally to smile happily. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Crowley, jaw going slack in surprise, leaned in and kissed at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth affectionately. “Oh really?” he laughed quietly. “You mean…you’ve had fantasies about this? Are angels allowed to fantasize about things other than charity and the occasional bout of divine ecstasy?”

“Only on coffee breaks and between prayers.” Aziraphale rubbed their noses together tenderly, smiling wistfully. He wrapped his arms tightly around Crowley in a possessive manner, desperately not wanting to lose the moment but knowing they couldn’t take things any further that evening. Neither was ready for the implications of such an encounter, despite what they might think. Leaning down to press his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder, he couldn’t help the chuckle that burst forth as the brunette sighed despairingly.

“I’m not going to bed you tonight, am I?”

“No dear, you’re not.”

“You’re a terrible tease.” Crowley turned his head and kissed lightly at Aziraphale’s lips. “Get a demon all worked up, spread those creamy white thighs so lasciviously, and then not put out. It’s inhumane.”

“Good thing you’re not human then, hmm?” Aziraphale grinned and kissed at the calming pulse in Crowley’s neck, nuzzling it lovingly as the demon’s hands rose up from his backside to settle comfortably around his waist. A warm, satisfied feeling rose up in the angel’s chest as he realized how very much restraint his companion must have been showing. He didn’t _have_ to stop after all. How endearing. “Besides…you wouldn’t enjoy it if it weren’t a challenge.”

“You say that, but I’m going to need a dip in the Euphrates to cool myself off later.”

“Why not now?” Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip with an expression that could only be described as impish, fingers playing idly with the slightly crumpled fabric at Crowley’s chest. “It’s nearly night, I doubt anyone would notice us.”

“Well, that does sound lovely.” Crowley nosed through blond locks until his lips found the shell of Aziraphale’s ear and bit down. “But you can’t go swimming in your finery, angel.”

“Whoever said I‘d be wearing my clothes? But you’d better keep your hands to yourself or I might be forced to give you a good thrashing.” With that he rose up off Crowley’s lap and straightened out his tunic modestly, turning towards the river before casting what he hoped was an inviting glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t really be sure since he didn’t have a lot of practice at that sort of thing.

“I suppose now might be a good time to tell you I can see in the dark?”

“As if I didn’t know that already. Come now, dear boy. The night isn’t getting any younger and neither am I.”

“You’re not getting any older either. Curvier though.” Crowley was on his feet now too, guiding Aziraphale down towards the river with a warm hand on the small of his back. There was this cozy little spot the angel knew of where the river ran particularly clean near a small outcropping of low hanging trees. It would be the perfect place for a little privacy.

“I can make you wish you could die, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a pleasant smile, baring as many teeth as his face would allow. The demon didn’t even have the courtesy to look affronted.

“If it involves you sans clothes I’m all for it.”

“It might…but it also might include you sans prick, so what would be the point?”

“Touché, angel.”  


 

FOOTNOTES

1: It could also have been the enormous bag of breadcrumbs that had held the bird?s attention for so long, but Aziraphale was attributing that to his delightful personality.

2: This, like the punishment at the Garden, had always been something of a mystery to Aziraphale. The phrase "overdoing it" came to mind, but he'd be damned (literally) if he said that out loud.

3: Also on that list was: child molesters, liars, people who chew with their mouths open, and any food involving barley --he hated the texture.

4: The past 1500 years.

5: Aziraphale was never what other might call "elegant", and so this particular version of sprawling gracefully actually looked something like a dying swan.

6: Crowley's fingers were quite dexterous, not to mention double-jointed.

7: In fact, the last time had been somewhere in the previous millennia, and he had lost a bet. The circumstances of the bet were hazy at best, but the eventual outcome of said bet involved two farm animals, a bucket of freshly churned butter, and a very inebriated prostitute. Aziraphale, to this day, has not forgiven himself.

8: His first kiss actually had been to Crowley somewhere around 1660B.C., but neither one remembered it as directly afterward they were both struck unconscious (and temporarily discorporated) by a wayward piece of flaming debris at the Avellino eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

 

 

  
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